Lila leans against the counter, one sock on, the other dangling from her hand like it’s too heavy to lift. Her dark hair, messy from sleep, is pulled into a lazy ponytail, but a few strands cling to her flushed face. She’s still in her oversized hoodie that says“BITE ME”in neon red letters and a pair of leggings with a tear at the knee.
“It’s not a party,” she argues, but her voice goes up at the end, betraying the lie. “It’s just… a hangout.” She waves her sock for emphasis, like that’ll sell it.
“A hangout with who?” I cross my arms, leaning against the fridge. The grocery list taped to the door flutters, taunting mewith all the unchecked boxes. “Your friend Maya’s cousin who looks like he moonlights as a SoundCloud rapper?”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head.
“He’s a DJ, not a rapper.”
“Because that’s better.”
Julian’s voice cuts in from the kitchen table. “Happy birthday, sis.” He’s buttering toast with the precision of a brain surgeon, the knife scraping against the plate just loud enough to make me wince.
“Thanks, Jules,” I say, turning my head to smile at him. His shaggy brown hair flops into his eyes, and he pushes it back with his forearm before going back to buttering. He looks so much like Dad sometimes it hurts, but he’s also the only one in this house who doesn’t actively try to ruin my sanity before 7 a.m.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Lila says, yanking her other sock on and hopping dramatically like I’ve asked her to climb Everest. “Everyone’s going. Even Maya’s mom is cool with it.”
“Maya’s mom lets her wear crop tops to church,” I deadpan.
Julian snorts into his toast, and Lila glares at him. “You’re not helping,” she snaps.
“Not trying to,” he says, taking a bite and talking through a mouthful of bread. “You’re lucky Bella hasn’t locked you in the attic yet.”
“I could still do that,” I add, raising an eyebrow at Lila.
“Oh, please. You’re the fun police, not the Gestapo,” she grumbles, grabbing her backpack from the floor. “And for the record, you’d make a terrible dictator. You’d try to guilt-trip your enemies into surrender.”
Julian actually laughs at that, and I throw my hands up. “Great, I’m being roasted in stereo now.”
“Happy birthday,” Lila says, her tone flat, but she tosses me the tiniest smirk as she shoulders her backpack. “I guess I love you or whatever.”
“Wow. I feel so special,” I reply, pulling her into a quick hug she pretends to hate.
Julian stands and slings his backpack over his shoulder, looking at me with that serious expression that makes him seem older than 17. “You okay, Bella? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say, ruffling his hair as I press a folded twenty into his palm. “Grab something for you and Lila after school, okay? Pizza or burgers, whatever you want. I might be late tonight.”
He nods, his brow furrowing like he wants to argue but knows better. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Don’t be too perfect,” I reply, kissing his cheek.
Lila’s already halfway out the door, yelling something about not wanting to miss the bus.
“Love you, bye!” I call after her.
“Bye, dictator!” she adds, her voice fading.
I shake my head and grab my coat, my gaze lingering on the picture of Mom and Dad on the mantel. The house feels quiet now, even though it’s still humming with life—dishwasher running, coffee maker sputtering.
One day at a time,I remind myself as I grab my car keys and head for the door.One day at a time.
I step onto the porch, locking the front door behind me. The faint click echoes through the quiet morning, a sound that feels more final than it should. My gaze lingers on the peeling paint around the doorframe—Dad was supposed to repaint it the summer before the accident. He even bought the supplies, a bucket of cream-colored paint still sitting in the garage, probably dried out by now.
The house looks tired but proud, like a veteran soldier. The sun-faded cream siding, light blue shutters, and wraparoundporch might not catch anyone’s eye, but to me, it’s everything. Every crack, every scuff, every creak of the floorboards feels like home.
I glance at the swing set in the backyard, visible from the side of the porch. The chains sway faintly in the breeze, creaking just enough to make me smile. Julian and I spent hours out there when we were kids—me pushing him on the swing while he screamed, “Higher, Bella, higher!” until Dad came out to warn us not to flip the thing over. Mom would stand on the porch with a glass of iced tea in her hand, laughing as she reminded Dad, “You used to push her just as high.”
Mom’s laugh. I can still hear it sometimes, echoing in my head at the strangest moments. Warm and full, like she was bottling sunshine just to pour it out for us. She had this way of making everything feel safe—like no matter how bad things got, as long as we were together, we’d be okay.
